


Flumptober 2019

by Cheeziswin



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Execution, Heat Stroke, M/M, Sharing Body Heat, Tyrajin - Freeform, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2020-11-08 21:21:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20842181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cheeziswin/pseuds/Cheeziswin
Summary: A Flufftober and Whumptober hybrid list of my own creation, dedicated to Tyrajin.





	1. Blanket

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, so I am... very new to both these two and Warcraft itself. This is my first fic for both. I've fallen hard for Tyrathan and Vol'jins characters, and their relationship. But since I'm so new and don't know nearly enough about the world or how these characters might interact, I thought doing an October challenge would be a great practice exercise for me to get a feel for them!  
So to maximize the characterization practice, rather than just choosing Flufftober or Whumptober, I just compiled my own list from both - making odd days fluff, and even days whump. Buckle up, folks, this is going to be fic whiplash.  
All the fics are written in one day and unbeta'd because I don't have friends in this fandom yet.  
I will add tags as they become relevant.

Acclimating to the cold has proven to be an impossible task. No matter how many mornings Vol’jin spent standing barefoot in the snow, every night, the cold still seeped down to his bones until he was a shivering mess. His mind warred with the logic that him and his people were genetically unfit for such climates - despite the fur - and the feeling of weakness that comes with being unable to stop shaking like a newborn raptor. The shaking was especially vexing considering how fatigued he was from the trek, and how much more of a trek they had ahead of them - a climb down the mountain into the Vale of Eternal Blossoms. The trembling was robbing him of precious sleep he needed to march and fight like the Pandaren required of him. Counterintuitively, the anxiety of being too tired to fight properly made sleep even more unattainable. 

He grumbled and rolled to his other side on the cave floor, not even a mat to shield his body from the bitter stone. He tugged the fur he had over him up to his chin and gripped it tightly in his hand, trying to stave off the violent tremors. The only consolation he got from the miserable chill is the knowledge that the Zandalari are out there suffering just the same as him. 

He’s in the middle of imagining shivering Zandalari’s to try and distract himself from his own shivering when some shuffling behind him snaps him out of his daydream. The man - Tyrathan - was situated beside him on the cave floor. For a brief moment, he thought the man was only shifting in his sleep. Then the human huffs and totters sleepily to his feet. He hears the steps approach but does not prop himself up to ask what he was doing.

“Here.” Tyrathan intones, keeping his voice low in respect to their sleeping allies.

Vol’jin, with some hesitation, turns his head to look at the man. It’s hard to see in the dark of the cave, but the moon illuminates just enough for Vol’jin to see the wool blanket being extended to him. Tyrathan’s only issued blanket. The troll is briefly overwhelmed by his emotions - guilt at possibly being the reason Tyrathan had awoken, offense at Tyrathan thinking him so weak as to need one more blanket than all the rest, and regrettably, touched, at the kind (but witless) gesture.

He settles himself neatly into offense. He blows out through his nose in dismissal and pointedly turns back away from the human. No matter the amount of respect he has for the hunter, and no matter how much it would help him, his pride prevents him from accepting such a piteous charity from a human. He figures that might be enough to send the man back to his own spot.

It’s not. Tyrathan lingers there, standing over him. Vol’jin opens his mouth to snap at him, but before his lips even part, Tyrathan brazenly lays the blanket over top of him. His eyebrows fly into his hairline, and the shock of it even briefly makes shivers wracking his body halt. It leaves Vol’jin dumbfounded.

“You’re welcome.” Tyrathan says flatly, but there’s an air of victory to his voice. He takes advantage of Vol’jin’s shock and flumps down beside him, depositing himself into Vol'jin's space in defiance. “You need it much more than me.”

Vol’jin stares straight ahead into the dim cave, trying to assess the situation he was suddenly, literally, enveloped in. He realizes his mouth was hanging open and consciously closes it, worrying his lip in thought. This was all at once a challenge and a trap. Khort was testing him, seeing how hard he could poke the bear before it wakes. At the same time, daring it to wake. Daring Vol’jin to kick up a petulant, stubborn fuss by giving the blanket he was already wrapped in back. Daring Vol’jin to argue and risk waking up their companions with such an inane spat.

No matter how insolent the move was, Vol’jin would look a fool if he tried to rebuke him then and there. There’s no doubt in his mind that Tyrathan knew this and capitalized on that fact. Sure, he poked the bear, but he made sure that it was leashed before hand.

The troll can honestly say he’s a bit impressed at how thoroughly he got played. It was inadvertently genius. He tried to dredge up some anger at being so effortlessly manipulated, but it was so absurd, he couldn’t bring himself to be upset about it. If anything, he was amused by it.

But the fact that he was impressed didn’t mean he wasn’t going to retaliate. 

Taking a moment to brace himself for the cold, Vol’jin gets smoothly to his feet, taking the fur and woolen blanket with him. Tyrathan had plopped himself down directly beside him, so Vol’jin only had to take a single step to be looming over the human. Tyrathan tenses beneath him, eyes closed, whole body coiling up in apprehension - probably thinking he’d wildly miscalculated Vol'jin's patience levels and had just carelessly pissed off a troll that had a good 2 feet and 150 pounds on him. Vol’jin pettily let him stew in it, smirking. Then he carefully draped the blankets over the man.

Tyrathan tentatively opens his eyes, tension easing for a fleeting second in relief. Until the troll climbs under the furs along with him and he’s tensing for a whole ‘nother reason. The human practically goes into rigor mortis as the shadow hunter gets comfortable beside him.

Once settled on his side facing away from the hunter, he sighs in content, perhaps laying it on a little too thick. He puts his arm under his head and speaks flippantly “I appreciate the gesture, mon, but there’s no sense in givin’ away what we can just share.”

He punctuates it with an over the top, clearly exaggerated yawn, and delights in the ramrod straight man beside him. The silence he was getting in response nearly gets to him, and he has to hold back from laughing when it stretches on for the longest time.

“Fine by me.” Tyrathan finally responds after a while, voice tight. The troll can’t help but smirk. After a while, Vol’jin feels Tyrathan gradually relax behind him, blankets moving minutely as he lets his muscles loosen. Vol’jin calms along with him, eyes drifting shut, smirk transitioning into a pleased smile. The second blanket, combined now with the humans own body heat, worked wonders in staving off the mountains icy temperatures. It wasn’t a sunny beach, but it was keeping the shivers at bay. He’d done it just to get some petty revenge, but now, he’s actually glad to have done it. Plus, the admittedly silly antics had provided a nice respite to the morbid tension that had been hanging over him and his allies for a good while now. They all knew they would surely lose people in the coming days.

They could lose each other.

The trolls face falls into a frown, brows knitting together. That thought brought a deep, sharp pain to his chest, and with the pain, uncertainty. Had he truly gotten so attached to the archer without realizing it? The mere thought of Tyrathan dying at the hands of some self-righteous Zandalari trolls made him sick to his stomach. Which was… concerning, to say the least. Perhaps he’d grown too close to the man.

Then, as the man behind him shuffles closer, as the man behind him slots his warm back deliberately against his own, he thinks perhaps the man had grown too close to him too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pacing in this one is WILD quick huh whoops lol


	2. Noose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'll be tried for treason and executed."
> 
> Trigger warnings: A brief mention of sex, mentions and allusions to torture and malnourishment, and an execution by noose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've not seen anyone explore this concept yet, so I bit the bullet!
> 
> This is a little bit late because my laptop broke yesterday. So I spent half the day trying to fix it, and the other half crying because I couldn't fix it - you know, instead of writing. Then because of my bad mental state I rewrote this chapter like 4 times. Whooooooops!

Tyrathan jolted awake to a loud metallic clang. His aching head rang, and his vision was blurry when he looked at the bars of his cell for the source of the sound. A Stormwind guard stood imposingly on the other side, expressionless helmet gleaming from the light of the torches.

“Get up.” The guard said redundantly, rapping their arm against the bars again with another impatient bang. Tyrathan flinched at the harsh noise, hands reflexively going to cover his ears. After the ringing subsided, Tyrathan hauled himself to his feet and stepped forward, knowing the process by now. He obediently put his hands through the slot in the bars, contrasted by the glare he leveled at the guard. They paid him no mind and clanked him into chains unceremoniously, and then his cell door was opened.

The guard didn’t step in, as Tyrathan had expected him to, as what usually happened when he was going to be interrogated. The guard gripped his chains and yanked him forward, Tyrathan stumbling and barely being able to keep upright. Then, much to his surprise, he was being paraded down the dank, empty halls. Dread washed over him. Being taken somewhere new never lead to anything good. His mind raced as he was guided, feet dragging, through the narrow hall.

The Alliance had learned of his friendship with the Horde’s current Warchief. Likely Morelan’s doing. It was unclear if it was out of malice towards him or just blind loyalty to the Alliance. Though he supposed it didn’t quite matter the intent.

He’d been thrown down into the dungeon about a month ago, by Tyrathan’s unreliable estimate. It was difficult to tell how much time had passed - there were no windows, and he hadn’t been taken outside since he had been jailed. He’d tried to count the days by the meals he was given, but he suspected that many had been skipped, so he could have been down here much longer than he thought. That was something he tried not to dwell on.

It had been the same routine day after day. Be woken up at some unknown time of day. Get interrogated about what he told Vol’jin, and what Vol’jin had told him. Give them nothing. Get beaten, in varying ways. Get left alone. Repeat indefinitely.

Tyrathan dropped his head as he walked, staring at his bare feet as they padded on the cold stone. The joke was on them, really. They were vying for information that Tyrathan didn’t even have. He’d grown close to the Chieftain, of course, but it wasn’t as if Vol’jin was laying out war plans and spilling Horde secrets to him on the nightly. The only thing Vol’jin laid out on the nightly was him. A fact that he divulged out of spite during one interrogation. Explicitly. The clear revulsion in the guards’ postures was almost worth the boot to the gut it had earned him.

They walked around a bend in the hallway. Fresh air assaulted his senses and his head jerked upright. There, just ahead, there was a tiny barred hole in the wooden door. It was dark out, but he knew that it lead outside. They were heading outside.

Suspicion gripped his entire being and each muscle in his body halted. Without missing a beat, the guard guiding him tugged his chains and he was made to keep walking, even when an intense sense of trepidation was telling him to not take another step forward.

The alliance had taken extensive measures to ensure his imprisonment was concealed. Even his arrest had been done with extreme discretion. He was kept in isolation. Indoors. The guards who attended to him were always the same two. They did not even address him by name. Everything about him was kept quiet. Every precaution was made to keep the Horde’s Warchief from finding out.

Being taken outside… Part of him knew that could only mean one thing, but denial gripped him like a drug. They could just be transferring him to a different cell. Or taking him outside to bargain, to give him a taste of what they might give him if he gave in to them. They could be...

No. No, he couldn’t find a feasible lie to tell himself. They came upon the door and Tyrathan felt like his limbs, his entire body, had been filled with static. The guard knocked on the door and said something that Tyrathan’s mind didn’t register. A freezing gust of wind washed over him when the door opened, and he couldn’t help but flinch. 

Having been deprived of it for so long, the outside was nigh overwhelming. Crickets chirped, the ground smelled and looked as if it had recently rained. The cold mud seeped into his toes, stinging. He craned his head upwards as he walked and saw the stars, and then couldn’t look away from them, entranced by the feeling of divine sadness that he hadn’t realized he missed so much.

The guard and him stopped. Against his better judgement, he lowered his head. 

He only saw the ominous rope for a second before he forced himself to look to the stars again. The sounds of the wind and the crickets seemed muffled as he was guided to the steps of the gallows, and he climbed them. He didn’t struggle. What would be the point of delaying what would be inevitable? He was weak from weeks of mistreatment, fighting two armed Stormwind guards and an executioner would be foolish. At the top of the stairs, a helmeted man in a brown cloak grabbed him by the arm and guided him to stand over a rickety trap door. It made him nauseous. He continued to stare at the stars, taking in as much as he could - out of the corner of his eye, the beam that the rope hung from.

Just before the noose slipped around his neck, he wondered if Vol’jin was gazing at them too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was tempted, SO tempted, to have some Horde rogues swoop in at the last minute to save Tyrathan but then where’s the whump in that? Where’s the edgy drama?


	3. Paint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vol'jin decides to take Tyrathan along on a diplomatic mission to Silvermoon with him.

“Ya nervous?”

The incessant tapping that had been filling the room since Tyrathan had sat down stops when his hand freezes on the table. He looks at Vol’jin in surprise, as if Vol’jin had peered right into his mind. Then his eyes stray back to his hand on the table and he frowns, only realizing now what had given him away. “I am.” He confesses as he pulls his hands down into his lap and slouches back into his chair. “Would you not be, in my position?”

Vol’jin hums an affirmation “I would be.”

“... That’s not reassuring.” Tyrathan grumbles under his breath after a beat.

Vol’jin snickers, and then the room goes quiet for a moment, other than the sound of the two trolls tending to him. One was styling his hair, the other carefully applying his face paint. Careful not to move too much, Vol’jin spoke again “It gonna be fine. Everyone already knowin’ you are my mate.”

The tapping resumed, but this time, it was coming from the hunters knee bouncing up and down. The polished armor he wore jingled with the motion. “Hearing rumors of it is not the same as seeing it.” Tyrathan refutes strenly, worrying his lip “They might find it disrespectful, parading me around during such an important diplomatic mission.”

“And it is disrespectful to you, to leave you in Orgrimmar.” Vol’jin refutes back simply. He closes his eyes so they can be painted over in a deep black. “It is to me.”

“I think that the hurt pride of the Blood Elves surpasses our own, in this case.” Tyrathan huffs stubbornly.

Vol’jin scoffs and shakes his head, causing the servants to tut at him in annoyance. He waves them away and stands from his stool, taking the jar of black paint with him. In two strides he’s in front of Tyrathan, who is giving him a quizzical look. He crouches beside Tyrathan’s chair so he is eye level with him.

“Ya be my mate.” Vol’jin says firmly, and dips his fingers into the black paint. He looks up into Tyrathan’s eyes and gives him a reassuring smile before motioning with his other hand for him to lean forward, “Close your eyes. Relax your face”

Tyrathan hesitates and raises an eyebrow, but does as asked. Vol’jin lightly places both his fingers to the top of Tyrathan’s forehead, close together, and begins to trace them down his face. He speaks softly as he does.

“Ya be  _ my _ mate.” Vol’jin repeats, dragging the dark paint gently over the humans eye, “I want them to know what you are to me. I want ya beside me. Every step of the way.”

Vol’jin finishes by dragging his fingers down his cheek, over his jawline, down his neck, until the paint runs dry at his collarbone. Tyrathan swallows, shoulders twitching.

“No one gonna stop me from takin’ ya along,” Vol’jin continues, dipping his other hand into the paint and beginning to mirror the other side of Tyrathan’s face. “Whether they judge or not, this is my decision.” The troll pauses then, hand stopping at Tyrathan’s collarbone again. He looks up at his husband apprehensively. “And yours. If you do not want to go…”

Vol’jin trails off, prompting Tyrathan to slowly open his eyes. Their eyes meet, and at the imploring look on Vol’jin’s face, Tyrathan’s face softens into a peaceful smile. The black lines running over his eyes make the already striking green that much more captivating. Even now, after so long, it makes Vol’jin’s heart skip a beat to have them meet his so earnestly. Tyrathan’s hand comes to rest atop Vol’jins on his chest. He sighs deeply, both their hands raising with the action, “I do want to go.” He concedes, adding “And not just because you want me there so badly.”

“You are sure?” Vol’jin asks.

“I’m sure.” He squeezes Vol’jin’s hand in his for emphasis, “I only worry it will make them take you less seriously. I wouldn’t want you to have trouble because you walked into Silvermoon with a human hanging off your arm.”

Vol’jin snorts and tilts his head “Ya planned to hang off me?”

“Of course,” Tyrathan says mischievously, wide grin growing on his face “Have it my way, I’d be riding in on your shoulders. The look on their faces would be worth their weight in gold.”

Vol’jin guffaws, and then laughs until there’s tears in his eyes when Tyrathan mockingly makes an overly shocked face. The servants complain about him ruining his paint for the rest of the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think Tyrathan would be the more cautious of the two when it came to their relationship in public, because he's very aware of how it makes Vol'jin look to have a human partner - and maybe feels a bit guilty at the fact that he's potentially making the Warchief look bad. Vol'jin is also aware of how people might think less of him, keenly so, but he just doesn't think it is that big of a deal - his desire to be fair to Tyrathan wins out against his desire to be Adored By All The Horde. He just wants to show off his cool husband. Plus, the looks on peoples faces is sometimes hilarious I bet so that's a plus. 
> 
> also chapters might be late for a while bc I need to buy a whole new laptop and also am in the middle of helping family move so OTL october is Hectic


	4. Heat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vol'jin and Tyrathan go out on a hunt together in the Barrens, and Tyrathan pushes himself a little too far.
> 
> TW: Heat exhaustion leading to heat stroke, puking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a cheat chapter bc it's short and there's barely absolutely no character examination in it at all, but I AM gonna continue it in a later whump prompt. I'm panicking bc im so behind lmfao why did i only decide to do Flumptober the day before October began

The sun beat down onto the arid plains of the Barrens as if it had a personal grudge against Tyrathan. The air kept his mouth persistently dry, no matter how much water he drank. There was never a respite from the heat - even as he was now, resting under the shade of a tall acacia, he felt like he was lounging in a furnace.

In stark contrast to him, Vol’jin seemed as if he barely noticed the sweltering weather. He chalked it up to Vol’jin being much more used to such temperatures. Having spent most of his life in Elwynn, this kind of weather wasn’t the kindest to him. He’d spent time in hotter climates before, but never for this extended time.

Maybe this was karma for poking fun at Vol’jins aversions to the cold. The incessant ache in his head certainly felt like divine punishment.

He was in the middle of trying to get his eyes to focus on a rock in the dirt when something was tapped against his arm. He looked up to see Vol’jin frowning at him in concern and handing him a canteen. He took it gratefully and chugged down the regrettably lukewarm water in it’s contents, only stopping when there was no more to guzzle down. He resumed staring at the ground and held the canteen up for Vol’jin to put back into his bag, only for it to not be taken. Puzzled, he looked up at the troll to find worry written all over his face. He took a breath in, getting ready to assure Vol’jin that he was fine, calm his nerves, when a sudden bout of nausea had his breath getting caught in his throat. He slaps a hand over his mouth in a panic. He see’s Vol’jin’s eyes widen, and distantly hears him say something, but his focus is too preoccupied with keeping his insides in. He sits up to be kneeling on his knees, desperately swallowing the saliva that keeps accumulating in his mouth and holding back the gags. Vol’jin is still talking to him, and he thinks he feels his hand rub his back in concern, but it barely registers between the headache, nausea, and dizziness. He doesn’t know how long he sits there fighting it before, with a dismayed shake of his head, he can’t any more.

He doubles over and vomits. Tears fill his eyes from the force of the retch, the burn of his throat. And, admittedly, the shame. Once it subsides, and he can breathe again, he lets out an undignified whimper. Only once he spits the disgusting taste from his mouth does he sit up again, and regrets it instantly, as he almost topples with the motion. Luckily, Vol’jin is with him in a flash, arms coming around him to steady him. Tyrathan keeps his eyes firmly closed and goes limp in the shadow hunters arms, chest heaving with the effort to breathe. Finally, Vol’jin’s frantic Zandali words register.

“What be happenin’?” He presses, “Are ya alright?”

He can’t manage more than a defeated “guh.” Getting sick seemed to take all his energy out of him. He was struggling to stay focused, and couldn’t muster the strength to open his eyes more than a sliver before the bright sun sent a stab through his head. He brings a hand up to rub his temple, only to wrench it away in revulsion when he finds it covered in his own stomach contents. He grimaces.

“That’s it, I’m takin’ ya to Crossroads.” Vol’jin says decisively, quickly gathering Tyrathan in his lengthy arms. The ordeal causes the nausea to come back in full force, but he grits his teeth and bears it. He grips onto Vol’jin as best he can, but with alarm, he realizes that he’s struggling to even keep his consciousness. It feels like his mind was slowly being enveloped by a black smoke. He struggles to keep his concentration, trying to find things to focus on to stay alert - Vol’jin rushing to the road with him, the sights of the trees and wildlife - but the longer it goes on it seems like a wasted effort.

The last thing he notices before blacking out was the imposing walls of the Crossroads ahead.

* * *

Before fully reaching the walls, he encounters a set of adventurers all grouped around a map. One of which, Vol’jin deems by way of the robes, is a priest.

“Priest!” He yells urgently.

The adventurers all jerk in alarm, heads shooting up to see who’d roared at them in such distress. All their eyes widen in astonishment. They scurry to gather themselves and salute.

“Warchief Vol’jin!” The blood elf priest in question squawks, confoundment clear as day on his face. His green eyes dart from the distressed Warchief to the unconscious man in his arms and he quickly steps forward, arms outstretched to assess the damage, “What’s going on?”

Vol’jin hurriedly explains what had happened while a golden light envelops the elves hands and he places them to the humans chest and forehead. His long brows knit in distress, and severely he states “He’s running a very high fever.”

“Could it be sunstroke?” One of the other adventurers chimes in. All eyes turn to her and she shrinks under the scrutiny, skeletal hands clasping the sides of her robe nervously, “It’s happened to me once while alive, and it sounds like that might be it.”

The priest then looks back to the man, considers it for only a moment, before nodding sharply and leaping quickly into action with the practiced dedication of a healer with a job to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got this idea while thinking about more ways that trolls might differ from humans, and I figured that heat stroke might be something that they don't suffer from or is so rare it's virtually nonexistent, so Vol'jin genuinely isn't sure what's happening with Tyrathan when he starts getting dizzy and cramping seemingly out of nowhere.  
Also, this was an easy chapter to write, because I didn't have to research anything, considering I suffered from heat exhaustion like 3 times this year. It was over 100 degrees for a month straight at one point... oof.  
Anyways this has been a PSA please take heat seriously. Sunstroke can put you into a coma, or kill you, and it takes months to full years to recover from. It's no joke. End PSA.


	5. Tea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short note - I headcanon that after they both leave the monastery and it doesn't work out with Tyrathan's wife, they mostly communicate through secret letters and the occasional meet up at a house in the middle of nowhere that Tyrathan stays in after moving away from Stormwind. The meetups are usually months apart from each other, and rarely last longer than a day or two. This is a moment from one of those meetups.

“Beware,” Tyrathan chirps “this could get ugly.”

Vol’jin, who had been staring absently into the fire before him, perked up at the man's voice. His ears pin back apprehensively, and his eyes flick from the supposedly dubious mug being extended to him and the man standing over him in question.

“I ran out of green tea leaves,” Tyrathan says, by way of explanation, settling in beside the troll. “Had to use whatever herbs I could find in the pantry.”

“Ah,” Vol’jin says “this  _ could _ get ugly.”

Simultaneously, they take a sip at length. For a beat, nothing happens, as they let the flavor settle on their tongues. Something about it strikes Vol’jin as familiar, but the flavor is complex so he can’t truly pin down why. Before he can truly contemplate it, he feels eyes on him. He glances at his mate, who he finds gazing at him, expectant.

“It’s drinkable.” Vol’jin says appeasingly. 

Tyrathan hums slightly in satisfaction, taking another quick drink before setting the mug on the floor before him “Drinkable. I’ll take it.”

A domestic, peaceful quiet settles over them then. They sit before a stone hearth on a worn old bear fur resting on the floor, periodically chipping away at their drinks, warming their bodies from the inside out. Times like these - where he could slip away from his duty as Warchief, slip away from the threat of the Legion even if only momentarily - were times to unwind, and just be. But alongside the warmth, Vol’jin feels… an ache. A pang deep in his chest. It might have been the late hour, or the solace of the fire and his partner beside him, but his mind just couldn’t place why, refusing to be anything but fuzzy. 

Then, like realigning a shoulder joint, it pops into place. He stares at the mug in his lap, watching the liquid move with every minuscule movement of his body. He brings the mug up to his face but doesn’t sip, lets the steam rise and condense on his face, breathing in the scent, finally able to place what had been bugging him about it. He closes his eyes and lets it wash over him.

“Reminds me of-”

“The monastery?” Tyrathan supplies helpfully, quickly but not impatiently, as he had been anticipating Vol’jin to mention it at any moment.

Vol’jin nods, thumb brushing the side of the mug as he lowers it once more. It feels too small in his hands, all of a sudden. He idly thinks of bringing a cup more suited to him to keep at Tyrathan’s home. Then he wonders if he comes around often enough to justify such a thing. The ache grows deeper.

Tyrathan nods in affirmation “There’s lavender in it.” A pause as he drinks. “Not a lot. I didn’t have much. They used lavender often in the teas, there.”

There’s a pause, then, as they stare into the fire and their thoughts no doubt sync. Talk of the monastery always seemed to be volatile. Most times, if brought up, it would be thought of fondly - the unbelievable feats they’d achieved against the odds, the time spent together and the gratitude that came along with it.

Then, on occasions such as this, in the more quiet and introspective moments, the thoughts turned somber. Bittersweet. The reasons that they had gotten to the monastery in the first place. Having to rebuild themselves from the ground up, after their worlds had crumbled to the ground. Their gravesites, however metaphorical they might have been.  _ Their _ gravesites, the Pandaren who so passionately fought for their home, so few yet so fierce.

Both of them had persistently complicated feelings about their time spent there. It flip-flopped from happy to harrowing and back again from moment to moment. As it was, it tacitly became a taboo topic between them.

But, well, it wasn’t as if the two of them were strangers to the taboo.

“Do you ever wonder about… if we had stayed?” Tyrathan says haltingly, turning to give the troll a searching look.

Vol’jin, being a troll of few words, doesn’t respond. He knows that his lack of response answers enough for the man who knows him better than most -  _ I do. _

In turn, Tyrathan also remains silent. He lowers his head and looks back to the hearth.  _ I do too. _

It’s difficult to wonder. Not a soul on Azeroth isn’t weighed down by thoughts of what-ifs and could-have-beens, none so much as the two beings seated together in one of the few fleeting moments they had with each other. Being appointed Warchief of a war-torn and shattered people didn’t provide much in ways of vacation, every waking moment spent picking up the pieces, even years down the line. Even the moments of rest he was awarded were much too fleeting to whisk himself away to another part of the continent for time with his mate. No matter how much he yearned to. The few times he has managed to slip away and disappear have already aroused suspicion amongst the public, and half the time he spends with his mate is spent agonizing over whether or not he had been followed - or how it was only a matter of time before the secret was out - and all the problems that would come with that. 

It’s easy to wonder. To think of them, unburdened by faction wars, or even by their names and titles and responsibilities. Ghosts, able to just be. Only drifting, surely, but drifting alongside each other. It’s  _ so _ easy to rationalize it, to say that things would have worked out fine. Someone else would have overthrown Garrosh, eventually, somehow. His people would have found another to guide them, surely. The world could have moved on without them, and they could have moved on without the world - they could have been content to stay just as they had been, in the kind of limbo that the monastery had provided for them.

It’s selfish and juvenile and foolish to wonder.

The wood pops and a log cracks and falls, sending sparks flying into the air and across the floor. Tyrathan takes a moment to brush off an ember that lands on the fur laid on the ground for them before it can singe it. There are already dozens of singe marks dotting the fur. Vol’jin thinks it’s just the principle of the matter by now.

“We wouldn’ta been able to live wit’ ourselves.” Vol’jin says tightly.

“No, we wouldn’t,” Tyrathan murmurs back, interlocking his hands and twiddling his thumbs before continuing “It would have been dreadful.”

Silence yawns between them after that, a suffocating coat over their previously cozy space. Vol’jin taps his finger against his mug anxiously, not liking the way the air seems to have chilled around them. He stares at his mate a second before sighing deeply. Can’t have their few and far between meetings be soiled with such negative emotions. He pats Tyrathan with the back of his hand to get his attention before leaning forward to set his tea out of the way - Tyrathan does the same, more than likely knowing what Vol’jin had in mind. As the man does so, Vol’jin takes the time to drag a woven blanket off the chair beside them. Once, he might have felt reluctant to indulge in such a soft, human type of comfort, but he’s long worked past such hang-ups. Especially when human comforts are, admittedly, quite nice in these situations.

Without even so much as a prompting from Vol’jin, Tyrathan drags himself smoothly into the Chieftains lap, as he had done hundreds of times before. He sighs happily and wiggles his shoulders as he leans back into Vol’jin’s broad chest - broad for a troll, all the broader with how small Tyrathan is compared to him.

After he’s settled in, Vol’jin takes the blanket in both hands, swings it around his shoulders and wraps his arms around his human. They encompass his waist easily, fully, as he twines them together and squeezes minutely. Tyrathan brings a hand up to grip the blanket and pull it closer around them and Vol’jin rests his chin atop the man's head, eyes closing in contentment. They revel in the feeling of one another, their weight, the movement of their bodies as they breathe the same breaths and retreat into the tranquility of each other. 

The tension that had come over them dissipates just as quick as it had materialized, chased away by familiarity and closeness. Metaphorical demons of their past, of what could have been their present, feel so far away now. Even the physical, real demons invading their home as of late feel almost like a distant memory. All that was real was them, the glowing fire, the holed blanket wrapped around them like a protective shield stronger than any priest could conjure.

What they had now, what all their choices had led to, it was something that Vol’jin never thought he would have - for a good number of reasons. Not least of which the person, the  _ man _ , who was sitting in his lap like he was meant to be there all along - and truthfully, Vol’jin suspected he was. The Loa may not have ever said it explicitly, but Vol’jin had spent the better part of his life deciphering their habitually cryptic messages, he’d not be a very good Shadow Hunter if he couldn’t tell that they approved of his union to the human. Even possibly orchestrated it. Most of them, anyway. Though Bwonsamdi approving of it, of all Loas, was much more worrying than reassuring. You win some, you lose some. But, Loa of death mysteriously supporting his choice in mate or no, he’s beyond happy with this man sitting on him. And by the way Tyrathan presses into him as if trying to mold into his skin, Vol’jin suspects the man feels much the same towards him. 

This is how it was meant to be, however difficult it was for them. Their meetings may be fleeting, and riddled with anxiety at being caught - and what might happen if they were - but it was exactly as it was supposed. Worrying about what could have been will only soil what has been, and will be. 

Vol’jin takes a deep breath in, filling his lungs with his mate's scent. He turns his head and presses his cheek into the top of Tyrathan’s head, then - mindful of his tusks - he leans down, presses it to Tyrathan’s own cheek, then the man’s neck when he tilts his head to accommodate him. Tyrathan leans into the touch and hums, and Vol’jin can feel the slightest bit of vibration against his face.

“I be knowin’ this is not perfect,” Vol’jin starts, voice low and raspy, made all the more gravelly by the near-fatal slice through his throat. He swallows. “But I be glad it is how it is.”

The man's hand comes to rest lovingly on his tusk. He cannot see it, but Vol’jin hears a smile in the man’s voice when he says “I am too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You wouldn't believe the amount of overthinking that went into every line of this. It's why it took so long. Blegh. This was also supposed to be fluff but it ended up more in the hurt/comfort kind of department? Whoops.


End file.
